


crooked love in a straight line

by autumncolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Other, POV Third Person, Season/Series 14, Sibling Incest, canon adjacent, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29686113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumncolour/pseuds/autumncolour
Summary: “Mom, we don’t hug,” he tells her. “I mean, we do, but only if it’s literally the end of the world, you know?”Sam learns of the Ma'lak box and comes to the conclusion that things will have to change.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 17
Kudos: 93





	crooked love in a straight line

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat canon divergent from 14.11 or 14.12 onward, although I’m sure you can shoehorn this into the cracks in the canon if you’re determined enough.

* * *

Confusion.

That’s Sam’s first reaction when Dean hugs him before setting out to have some one-on-one time with mom. There’s an arm slung around him, a chin resting against the back of his head, and Sam doesn’t even have time to reciprocate before Dean is already patting his shoulder and pulling away. A hug like this is so far out of left field that Sam’s brain sort of short-circuits. He doesn’t even manage a _“Huh?”_ , much less a well deserved “ _What the hell?”_

Then he gets suspicious.

Dean doesn’t do casual hugs. _They_ don’t do casual hugs. Something is up.

Then he gets scared and calls mom.

“Mom, we don’t hug,” he tells her. “I mean, we do, but only if it’s literally the end of the world, you know?”

The thought keeps popping up, after. _Only if it’s literally the end of the world._ It’s true. They don’t really touch that much. There’s an occasional pat on the back, sure, but other than that they always seem to need a reason. One of them needs to be hurt, or restrained, or at the very least cautioned against rash action—only then is Sam allowed to place his hand on Dean’s chest, to feel Dean’s heart hammering against his ribs. And Dean _can_ be really gentle, Dean will hold him and stroke his hair, but only when Sam is literally about to die. In any other circumstances such gentle gestures would be impossible.

Have they always been like this? Didn’t they use to bump shoulders walking down the street, knock knees together under diner tables? Wasn’t Dean constantly ruffling his hair? Weren’t they always falling asleep leaning on each other?

When did they stop? _Why_ did they stop?

Why are they denying themselves the simple human comfort of reaching out to touch, to feel the other there, close and alive?

Even with his furious research into banishing an archangel, Sam has way too much time to dwell on the subject. And somehow, even with all the other hunters now sharing the bunker, there is way too much empty space in which he can feel the distance between them like a draft blowing through the cracks in his skin.

Even before he learns of the Ma’lak box and what Dean plans to do with it— _no no no, oh god, oh fuck no_ —Sam comes to the conclusion that things will have to change.

The utter horror of the lonely metal coffin is just the final straw.

If Dean were to die before him—he won’t, he _won’t_ —but _if_ , then Sam doesn’t want to spend the rest of his miserable, lonely life regretting not hugging his brother more.

The trouble is, he can’t exactly start casually wrapping himself around Dean. Any sudden change in how he behaves will just set off alarms in Dean’s severely traumatized brain, and that will make him suspicious and only serve to drive them further apart. No. The whole thing needs to be approached with the same care one would take trying to tame a wild wolf.

When they get back to the bunker, Sam pulls up a few articles on human—and animal—psychology, and resigns himself to a lengthy uphill struggle.

* * *

He decides to start out very small.

_Clothing accidentally brushing against clothing_ levels of small.

That should be inconspicuous enough.

“Have you seen a can opener anywhere?” he asks, reaching around Dean to pull open a drawer near the sink. Their shoulders brush, just for a second, Dean’s flannel catching on his cotton t-shirt—and then Dean steps neatly aside.

“What do you need a can opener for?”

“Nothing.” Sam risks another tiny breach of Dean’s personal space, this time without physical contact. “Just trying to find out if we have one.”

Dean abandons his place by the sink and retreats to perch on the corner of the table, a safe distance away.

Sam hides a sigh. He thinks of wolves and cats, of _avoiding sudden movements_ and _letting the animal get curious and come to you_. He keeps looking for the can opener, which he is pretty sure they don’t have, and after a while Dean can’t seem to resist joining him in the hunt. Sam is careful not to touch his brother, not intentionally, but he makes sure he’s a little slower than normal in moving out of Dean’s way.

When Dean finally impatiently grabs his arms and pushes him to the side, it feels like a well-earned victory, and Sam has to turn away to hide the wide grin that spills on his face.

* * *

Getting Dean used to incidental touches proves to be surprisingly easy. What with all the other people using the place as a base of operations, the bunker now sometimes gets crowded and noisy enough that small things like brushing against Dean as they pass each other in the hallways or getting his attention with a touch to his elbow quickly become the new normal. If Dean is aware of this change, he doesn’t comment on it. He even starts touching Sam back—nudging his arm when passing him a beer, and placing his hand on Sam’s back when navigating past him.

But getting from these incidental bits of physical affection to intentional ones proves to be a much bigger challenge. And it doesn’t exactly help that all the while horrible shit keeps happening around them and to them.

Some days Sam feels like climbing on top of the bunker and screaming at the world to _please stop turning for five goddamn seconds_.

More than once he considers just sitting Dean down and telling him that from now on they’re going to be hugging and touching each other every chance they get. No arguments. Get used to it. Who cares if it’s not manly, or if it feels weird—the world might end any fucking day and Sam’s going to wring out every last bit of enjoyment out of it while he still can.

But then he reminds himself that this kind of approach never works with Dean. He takes a few deep breaths and puts his head down and doggedly pushes on with his bizarre one-man guerilla campaign.

* * *

The problem is, there just never seems to come a moment when it feels natural to make the leap from incidental to intentional.

That’s the core of his problem, as far as Sam can tell: making the jump from all the not-so-accidental touches—and there’s been a lot of those lately, Sam is so proud of all the progress they’ve made—to a blatant gesture that says, _I’m touching you just to touch you_. The distance between these two feels enormous. It feels like he’s standing on the edge of Grand Canyon, wondering how on earth a single jump could ever get him safely to the other side, every instinct telling him he will only end up on the rocks at the bottom, smashed to pieces.

Then Michael gets out of Dean’s head.

The archangel kills nearly everyone unlucky enough to be in the bunker at the time, and Jack burns off his soul to save them, and Sam feels so guilty he can’t even bear to touch himself, much less sully Dean with the muck he can feel sluicing just under his skin. He runs himself ragged with a hunt after a hunt, and Dean gives him space, and Sam is grateful and also hates him for it.

Like a child, he wants Dean to wrap him in a hug so that he could kick and scream and cry himself hoarse and be comforted by the suffocating knowledge that Dean is stronger than him and won’t let go, no matter what.

And if he can’t have that, maybe it would be easier to not exist as a body at all. But no—he knows what that’s like, and it isn’t any better.

“I can’t keep running,” he finally concedes, more to himself than to Dean. “This is my home. This is our home. Dean, I think I just need some time.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and doesn’t press the issue.

Sam wants to hit him and hug him and maybe kiss him, all at the same time. He does none of these things. But later that night he lets the back of his hand brush against Dean’s back, an apology masquerading as an accident. Dean looks at him over his shoulder, slow and steady, and a knot in Sam’s stomach starts to unravel, and he knows they’ll be alright.

* * *

Slowly he starts to get used to the bunker being so quiet again. Starts to feel like a person instead of a sack of guilt, poorly sewn together and leaking filth at the seams. He worries about Jack, though, and that seems to take up so much energy that he slips back into their old aloof ways a little. He tries his best to keep up with the accidental little touches, but even those get more infrequent, and his determination to push for more wavers.

At night, lying alone in his bed, staring at the dark ceiling, Sam wonders if they just aren’t built for the non-end-of-the-world kind of intimacy.

He’s organizing a shelf in the library when Dean asks, out of nowhere: “How are you doing?”

Sam hides his surprise by taking his time pushing a book back in its slot on the shelf. “Fine, I guess. Why?”

“Just wondering. ‘Cause lately you’ve…” Dean trails off. His chair creaks as he shifts in it. “You know what. Nevermind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Dean looks strangely bashful. “There’s just a—No. It’s nothing.”

A curious little butterfly flutters its wings in the pit of Sam’s stomach. “How are _you_ doing?” he asks, carefully neutral.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know man,” he says. “I’m just so tired all the damn time.”

He lifts his head and looks at Sam, and his expression is so vulnerable and lost that Sam reacts on instinct.

“Come here,” he says. He opens his arms, wriggles his fingers, lifts his eyebrows expectantly, and—wonder of wonders—Dean gets up and comes to him.

Dean tries to give him a quick, pat-on-the-back kind of a hug, but Sam won’t have any of that nonsense. He wraps his arms around his brother, anchors his jaw over Dean’s shoulder and holds on. He can feel Dean practically vibrating with nervous confusion. Sam just tightens his hold. He breathes in and out, deep and slow, forces his own muscles to relax, and—another wonder—after a small eternity Dean stops fighting and melts into the embrace.

Sam’s whole body floods with such simple happiness that he has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying.

* * *

From there on, each consecutive hug gets a little easier.

Most of the time it still takes some subtle emotional manipulation to cajole Dean into accepting the need for a hug, but gradually the excuses get flimsy enough that even Dean must recognize them for what they are. He doesn’t call Sam’s bluff. Doing so would mean he would have to accept the fact they now hug for no other reason than that they feel like it. Or he would have to put a stop to the whole hugging business. And he doesn’t seem to want to do that, either.

Sam doesn’t complain. He’s content to take what he can get, details be damned. And for a while he doesn’t try to have anything more. He doesn’t let himself get greedy. He takes every hug as a gift, marvelling at how lucky he is to have this much.

But then he starts to wonder—why stop there?

Who says hugs and pats on the back are the only acceptable ways brothers can show physical affection to one another? There aren’t any laws against siblings being physically close—the obvious extremes excluded—so why should they _not_ also cuddle, or stroke each other’s hair, or hold hands? What is stopping them from having all this?

They’ve been through so much pain and loss. Aren’t they entitled to as much comfort as they can get?

* * *

Once Sam gets this idea in his head, he can’t get it out again.

His hands twitch every time Dean is near enough to touch, and it takes enormous self-control not to reach out. He wants to gently grab Dean’s shoulder. He wants to caress Dean’s cheek, to feel the rough stubble under his fingertips. He wants to take Dean’s hand and lace their fingers together and just not let go.

He wants all of this and much more, so keenly that some days it feels like he might spontaneously combust.

* * *

They’re lounging at the map table, on one of those nights when just existing feels like too much work. Sam scrolls idly through a website about strange animal sightings in Wyoming, and Dean is reading some trashy novel, his feet propped up on the table and a bottle of beer within easy reach. The silence between them feels domestic and comfortable.

Sam is absently debating the merits of shower vs. sleep, when Dean abruptly stretches and then bends his arm to scratch at the back of his head.

A vivid sensory memory slaps Sam in the face: the short hairs at the back of Dean’s head under his fingertips, coarse-soft like an animal’s coat. He’s got no idea when and where this memory is from, but given their history, it’s likely tied to one tragedy or another. Still, Sam now wants to experience it again. He wants to drag his fingers through Dean’s hair, play with the longer strands at the top, feel the gradient change from the longer hairs to the buzz cut at his neck.

Dean catches him looking. “What?” he asks. “Do I have something on my face?”

Sam’s still caught up in the daydream, and so he lets his mouth run on autopilot. “Just a pair of pretty eyes.”

He immediately wishes he could take it back. The last thing he wants is to make things awkward between them. If Dean starts to think he’s trying to—oh god, he can’t even bear to think what Dean might do if he thought he was—

But Dean just huffs, more amused than weirded out. “Is that your best pick-up line?”

_It’s okay. They’re okay._ Sam lets himself smirk. “Why waste the effort? I know you’re easy.”

“That’s me.” Dean winks, lifting the bottle in salute.

“Okay, well.” Sam closes the laptop and gets up. He twists his torso a little, feels a familiar pop somewhere near his lower back. “I’m gonna have a shower and then turn in.”

“You do that.”

Sam circles the table, fingertips skimming over its smooth surface until they bump against Dean’s elbow. He wraps Dean in a one-armed hug, much like the one that started it all. Dean’s hair smells like cheap motel shampoo, and Sam can’t resist. He presses his nose into it, cups the back of Dean’s head with his free hand—and oh, his hair feels just the way Sam remembers it, coarse and silky-smooth at the same time.

Dean is sitting very still. “I think I’ll have one more beer,” he says, his voice carefully quiet.

“Alright.” Sam lets go, a little reluctantly. He pats Dean’s shoulder. “Don’t overdo it.”

“What are you, my hot babysitter?”

“You wish.”

_They’re okay._ Maybe they haven’t bantered quite like this in years, but that doesn’t have to mean it now means something it didn’t before. That it has surfaced now, with the renewed physical closeness, is purely coincidental. It’s just a sign that they’re on their way to mending some of the deeper emotional wounds they’ve collected over the years.

At the doorway Sam glances back to see Dean staring after him with a thoughtful expression.

* * *

Then mom dies, and things are very much not okay for a while.

Which is a nice understatement, but Sam has accepted that there are certain things he has to do to preserve his sanity, and thinking in platitudes like _things are pretty bad right now but we’ll get through_ is one of them.

Dean tries to crawl back into his self-isolating shell, and Sam very stubbornly won’t let him. He hugs Dean even more than before, and Dean grumbles about it, but eventually he seems to accept that this is his life now. They _will_ hug. At the end of the day Dean, too, must know they both need it.

And Dean might not admit it, but Sam’s beginning to realize he’s always been a very tactile guy. He’s just bought into the whole _real men don’t touch other men_ all-American bullshit, and if Sam is honest with himself, he’s not much better. Dean also has a cartful of baggage he still keeps lugging around—he doesn’t deserve love and affection, he’s poison, he ruins everything and everyone he comes in contact with. Sam knows this, because he’s the same. There are days when he doesn’t even think he deserves to breathe. But he also knows none of that is true. He knows they deserve love and affection and other such good things as much as anyone else. He’s going to prove that to Dean or die trying.

Somewhere at the back of his mind he’s aware that there are purely selfish reasons for why he’s going through all this trouble.

He wants to touch Dean. It’s as simple as that. And he wants Dean to touch him. Just because. It’s the one side of his brother he hasn’t had much access to, not since he was a little kid, and like a kid, he selfishly wants it.

If Dean has a problem with that, he can use his words and communicate his boundaries like an adult.

Sam knows he’s being a little hypocritical, what with all the Ocean’s 11 crap he still has to pull to con Dean into a hug. But that is another thing he’s come to accept about this life. Sometimes the end justifies the means.

* * *

Once he has gotten Dean used to casual hugs, Sam very gradually starts to introduce other kinds of touches into their life.

He has to be sneaky about it, because Dean still gets his guard up if Sam tries to touch him without a reason. What counts as a valid reason, though, follows a bizarre Dean-logic that would be undecipherable for anyone else.

Putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder as they’re standing side-by-side waiting for the coffee to drip is a no-no, but giving Dean’s back a gentle rup as Sam passes behind him to get to the fridge is acceptable. Dean will tolerate a hug better when leaving than when returning, and he won’t allow Sam to keep his hand on the back of his neck while sitting in the library, but he’s okay with it if they’re watching a movie together. Then he’ll even let Sam run his knuckles down his spine, but only for a few minutes at a time.

Dean has even let Sam hold his hand once—also while watching a movie, those seem to be a good distraction—but only after first loudly complaining of a cramping muscle at the base of his thumb and having Sam massage the cramp away.

The more he gets to touch Dean, the more he wants. And the more Dean allows him, the bolder he gets, until one day, just before stepping away from a hug, Sam turns and presses a soft kiss on Dean’s temple.

Dean lets out a small surprised _hum_. The look he gives Sam is ambiguous, but seems to say he’s maybe mostly okay with it.

Things sort of escalate from there.

* * *

“Dude…What are you doing?”

Dean sounds slightly alarmed. Sam takes that to mean he’s overstepped a little, so he pulls back and lets go of Dean’s face. His lips tingle from the brief brush against the sharp stubble on Dean’s cheek. He circles to the other side of the kitchen table and sits down. “Did you know,” he says, “that in several cultures, kissing your friends and family is a totally normal thing to do?”

Dean gives him a sceptical glance. “We’re not living in ‘several cultures’, Sammy.”

“No,” Sam concedes easily. “But you have to wonder why the American culture is so touch averse. Is it the whole Puritanism thing? Where did _they_ get it from? I mean, you only have to look at Southern Europe, or the Middle East to see that it’s not that all Abrahamic religions are inherently against things like platonic kissing.”

That earns him a longer stare. “Was that what that was? A platonic kiss?”

“Yeah.”

“You gonna kiss me on the mouth next time?” Dean purses his lips. “Like an Italian grandma?”

Sam shrugs. “I might.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “You try that and I might punch your lights out.”

His tone is joking, but there’s a steel-hard edge to it. Sam interprets it as fear. Or uncertainty. Whatever it is, Dean clearly feels threatened by the idea, which—Sam gets it. He’s nervous, too, gets butterflies in his stomach every time he pushes against the border of what has been established as familiar and safe. But he’s also determined. And Dean hasn’t told him to stop. Hasn’t pulled the brakes on the whole platonic intimacy thing, or put up a sign that says: ‘No Further’.

It’s not like Sam absolutely _needs_ to kiss his brother. But as before, once he gets the idea into his head, it’s hard to shake off.

He’ll just need to give them a little more time to get used to the idea.

* * *

In the end it doesn’t take all that long.

As with the whole endeavor, Sam starts small. He takes every chance he gets to press a kiss on some part of Dean’s body—shoulder, back of the neck, top of the head. Exposure therapy. In only a couple of weeks Sam stops feeling awkward doing it and Dean mostly stops complaining. He doesn’t reciprocate, but Sam feels confident they’ll get there eventually.

Kisses on the cheek, however, are still regarded with some suspicion.

“You really trying to turn into that Italian grandma?”

Sam holds his lips against Dean’s cheek a couple of seconds longer. “Yes,” he says. “I heard they have really long lifespans.”

Dean laughs, and for a tiny golden moment life is good.

* * *

Then more people die. It never gets any easier. Sam feels numb all over, like his body has been dipped in local anesthetic.

He has trouble sleeping, and so he’s haunting the kitchen for a midnight snack. He is shoulders deep in the pantry, trying to see if they have any cereal left, when he hears Dean’s bare feet on the tiled floor. “Hey,” he says without turning around.

“Hey.” Dean’s footsteps draw nearer, and then there’s a warm hand on Sam’s back. “Whatcha looking for?”

“Cereal. You probably ate them all, didn’t you?”

“Probably,” Dean agrees. “Can’t sleep?”

Sam emerges from the pantry, sans cereal. “Yeah.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Sometimes eating something helps.”

Dean regards him with an expression that is unusually sympathetic and unguarded. He also looks ridiculous in his hotdog PJs and the long swishing bathrobe. “C’mere,” he says, and then doesn’t wait, just reaches out and pulls Sam gently into a hug. Sam sags against him, just holding on. Dean strokes his hair, and for a moment that’s the only movement in the room. Then Dean shifts a little, and Sam thinks he’s going to pull away, but Dean just turns his head, and then there’s the softest brush of lips just below his ear.

Sam’s breath catches in his throat. He buries his face against Dean’s shoulder and grips him tighter, like he might be able to weld them together if he just squeezed hard enough. He doesn’t start to cry, but it’s a near thing.

“Hey,” Dean says quietly in his ear. “I need my ribs for breathing.”

Sam eases up on the pressure. “Sorry,” he says, and tries to take a step back, but Dean holds onto his shoulders.

“Don’t apologize.” Dean smiles at him, genuine if a little grim around the edges. Then he slowly leans forward to press a soft kiss on Sam’s cheek. “Try to get some sleep. Okay?”

Sam is too stunned to reply. He nods, and attempts a smile, and then just concentrates on keeping himself together until Dean has left the kitchen.

Then he cries a little.

* * *

Among Sam’s favorite things in the world, Dean’s arm slung around his shoulders ranks pretty high.

They’re sitting on Sam’s bed, watching Wild Wild West on his laptop. Dean’s thumb is rubbing absent little circles on his shoulder, and Sam feels content in a way he hasn’t in a long time. The world outside his room continues to be a terrible place, but in here he can allow himself the temporary luxury of imagining everything is fine.

Like all dubiously good things, the movie ends way too soon.

“Okay.” Dean stretches and goes to stand up. “I guess that’s good night.”

Without thinking, Sam reaches out to take Dean’s hand and halt his escape from the bed. “Stay,” he says. “Sleep here tonight.”

Dean stops, frozen in indecision. Sam holds his breath.

Being finally able to touch Dean so freely has made Sam realize he can now be equally free with his words. There’s nothing stopping him from saying, _I want this, I need this, this is how I feel and I want you to know it_. It’s intoxicating, the power these newly freed words grant him. Sometimes he’s almost scared of it, scared of himself. Who knows how much he might want to take, how far he might be willing to push them.

Dean’s shoulders relax infinitesimally and he nods. “Alright. But I gotta hit the can first.”

Sam feels strangely giddy. He feels like a teenager.

He fidgets while Dean is gone. He puts the laptop away and gets under the covers, but lying down feels strange, so he sits back up and picks up a book at random. When Dean finally comes back he’s only pretending to read it, scanning the same lines over and over, not understanding a word.

Dean kills the lights and gets under the covers. The bed is too narrow for them, but somehow Dean manages to settle on his back, a careful inch away rom him. Sleeping in the same bed is something they haven’t done since they were kids, and apparently that is enough to bring back all of Dean’s reservations about touching his brother.

That won’t do.

Sam finds Dean’s arm in the dark and drags it over his own chest. The maneuver forces Dean to turn sideways, to press close against his side, and Sam sighs, made instantly happier by the contact.

“This feels weird,” Dean complains.

“Let it.” Sam covers Dean’s hand with his own. “You’re a big boy, you can handle a bit of weird.”

Dean huffs, but Sam can feel him start to relax. Not long after, Dean begins to stroke his chest in tiny back-and-forth sweeps of his fingers.

A memory pops up: Dean smiling at him, dusty from the rubble from a barely dented wall, a grenade launcher slung over one shoulder. Sam remembers feeling giddy with excitement and lack of oxygen, and it’s the same swooping thrill he now feels vibrating in the pit of his stomach. It’s weird. They were about to die, by asphyxiation or explosion, and all he can remember from that moment is looking up at his big brother and thinking: _I trust you. Let’s do it._

It was such a spectacularly bad idea, but what else is their whole life but a beautiful string of more of the same?

Dean presses a tiny kiss on his shoulder. “G’night, Sammy.”

Sam turns to him. His nose bumps against Dean’s, and before he can talk himself out of it, he kisses Dean on the lips, quick and chaste.

And then he does it again, a tiny bit slower.

The world doesn’t end.

Dean has gone very still, save for a hand that has scrabbled up in the narrow space between them to clutch at the front of Sam’s t-shirt. Sam expects to be pushed away. But that doesn’t happen, so he kisses Dean a third time—still chaste, just a soft press of lips against lips, light and sweet. There’s that fluttering excitement again, deep against his spine, but it doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything wrong. Kissing Dean like this feels like comfort. It feels like home. It feels like sitting in the front seat of the Impala, rolling through the darkness and feeling safe in the knowledge that wherever he’s going, Dean is right there next to him.

And Dean isn’t stopping him, so Sam kisses him again, and again. Tiny, soft kisses, lingering to marvel at the satin feel of his lips, the tickling scratch of his stubble. He can feel Dean’s warm breath and smell his minty toothpaste—and then Dean is brushing tentative fingers against his neck.

It’s not clear whose fault it is—maybe they’re equally guilty—but somewhere, between one kiss and the next, something strikes a spark. Maybe Dean’s mouth opens a little too much. Maybe Sam accidentally lets the tip of his tongue brush against Dean’s bottom lip. Whatever the case, Dean suddenly draws a breath that is just a little too shuddery. His hand slides up to tangle in Sam’s hair, and even though all their movements are still gentle and slow, it’s impossible to pretend that what they’re doing hasn’t tipped over from platonic to erotic.

Sam pulls back a little, stops Dean from chasing him with a hand on his chest. Very carefully, he presses his forehead against Dean’s. They stay like that for a moment, just breathing.

Dean’s fingers curl against his neck. “What the fuck do we do now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

He sounds scared. He sounds like this _is_ a whole new kind of an end of the world.

“We’ll figure it out,” Sam says. Then he kisses Dean again, just because he can—just because he wants to. “Just like we always do.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this post on tumblr](https://prince-of-elsinore.tumblr.com/post/642798418698305537/ok-so-my-grandma-whos-from-an-italian-family) about platonic lip-kisses given by an Italian grandma. It took a little different turn and I kinda maybe didn't succeed at the whole 'platonic' thing, but eh. Weird brothers, what can you do.


End file.
